Моби Дик

The Spouter-Inn

           lightedacandleandheldittowardsme,offeringtoleadtheway.ButIstoodirresolute;whenlookingataclockinthecorner,heexclaimed"Ivumit’sSundayyouwon’tseethatharpooneerto-night;he’scometoanchorsomewherecomealongthen;docome;won’tyecome?"

           Iconsideredthematteramoment,andthenupstairswewent,andIwasusheredintoasmallroom,coldasaclam,andfurnished,sureenough,withaprodigiousbed,almostbigenoughindeedforanyfourharpooneerstosleepabreast.

           "There,"saidthelandlord,placingthecandleonacrazyoldseachestthatdiddoubledutyasawash-standandcentretable;"there,makeyourselfcomfortablenow;andgoodnighttoye."Iturnedroundfromeyeingthebed,buthehaddisappeared.

           Foldingbackthecounterpane,Istoopedoverthebed.Thoughnoneofthemostelegant,ityetstoodthescrutinytolerablywell.Ithenglancedroundtheroom;andbesidesthebedsteadandcentretable,couldseenootherfurniturebelongingtotheplace,butarudeshelf,thefourwalls,andapaperedfireboardrepresentingamanstrikingawhale.Ofthingsnotproperlybelongingtotheroom,therewasahammocklashedup,andthrownuponthefloorinonecorner;alsoalargeseaman’sbag,containingtheharpooneer’swardrobe,nodoubtinlieuofalandtrunk.Likewise,therewasaparcelofoutlandishbonefishhooksontheshelfoverthefire-place,andatallharpoonstandingattheheadofthebed.

           Butwhatisthisonthechest?Itookitup,andhelditclosetothelight,andfeltit,andsmeltit,andtriedeverywaypossibletoarriveatsomesatisfactoryconclusionconcerningit.Icancompareittonothingbutalargedoormat,ornamentedattheedgeswithlittletinklingtagssomethinglikethestainedporcupinequillsroundanIndianmoccasin.Therewasaholeorslitinthemiddleofthismat,asyouseethesameinSouthAmericanponchos.

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